


The Umbrella Conundrum

by sparly503



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship/Love, M/M, Romance, The Umbrella Conundrum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparly503/pseuds/sparly503
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking advantage of a rare weekend with Mycroft, Lestrade fills it with suggestive comments, silly questions and stepping out into the rain. Mystrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Umbrella Conundrum

**Author's Note:**

> Just because they're my OTP. It's kinda pointless fluff. Oh, and I know "unsubtlety" isn't a word but I just couldn't find a more fitting synonym, so yeah. Unsubtlety it is.  
> Don't know, don't own, don't sue.  
> Cross posted from ff.net and LJ.

Gregory Lestrade was many things, but lazy was not one of them. He didn’t have the _time_ to be lazy, in between working on homicide cases, keeping an eye on the most annoying consulting detective in the world (and just because Sherlock was the only one didn’t mean he couldn’t be titled as “most annoying”) and checking he had enough food in the fridge to last him for the next few days. London never had a slow pace and his life was no mercy to this rule. So in rare moments of peacefulness, when serendipity was allowed to overcome stress, he could really be forgiven for just wanting to sit down, close his eyes and relax. Which was precisely what he was doing on this one cool Friday evening, listening to the low hum of his television as it reported a forecast of rain for the next day, subconsciously registering the growing darkness and thinking blissfully about the uncommon occurrence of having a _whole_ weekend without conferences to go to or higher powers to be amiable to. And unless a new murder turned up, to which he’d doubtless have the opposite reaction to Sherlock on, he was very much looking forward to just being. And especially _just being_ with the person who had only now knocked on the front door, rousing Lestrade from his light resting and causing him to lift himself out of his chair, walk over to the door and open it with his familiar, warm smile that he always found on his lips whenever his visitor was around.  
However, this smile was quickly wiped off his face when he saw the grimace of pain that was strained across his companion’s features.  
                “Mycroft. Are you hurt?” He asked, stepping forwards hastily to put a hand on his shoulder for support. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but leant into Lestrade anyway, needing to get the weight off his right foot.  
                “What did you do?”  
Mycroft winced slightly as he answered, his knuckles white around the handle of his umbrella.  
                “Tripped up those bloody stairs of yours. They are really uneven, you should sort them out.”  
                “You must be in pain, I’ve never heard you swear before, in all the time I’ve known you,” Lestrade grinned. “And besides, they’re not _my_ stairs, they’re public, so I can’t fix them.”  
                “Alright then, _I’ll_ fix them.”  
Lestrade laughed, pulling him into the flat and closing the door behind them with a kick. Gently he shifted their position so he could drape Mycroft’s arm around him and take more of his weight, and lead them across the room to the chair.  
                “Sit,” he ordered, untangling himself from Mycroft and settling him down on the chair.  
                “I don’t usually give in to commanding tones but it suits you.” He glanced up at Lestrade, letting his gaze hover on his face appreciatively. Lestrade just rolled his eyes and turned to switch off the television, before sitting down on the sofa himself and giving Mycroft a concerned look.  
                “Are you sure you’re alright?”  
                “I’ll live. Do stop fussing.” Mycroft gave him a tight smile that didn’t quite mask the pain he was clearly still feeling. Noticing this, Lestrade leant forwards and  took his hand, a simple action he’d discovered always calmed and comforted Mycroft, and felt him squeeze his hand back, gratitude shown in the slight bow of his head. Lestrade suddenly felt a little bit more awake.  
                “Maybe you’ll need a walking stick,” he said lightly, “you know, if you can’t get around anymore. And isn’t it pretty essential that you do, you being an integral cog in the well oiled machine that is Britain.”  
Mycroft looked back up at him, amusement in his eyes.  
                “I told you before, I occupy a-”  
                “Minor role in the British Government,” Lestrade interrupted, grinning, and Mycroft smiled back. “But about that walking stick...I think I recall that John used to have one.”  
                “I remember.” Mycroft reclined back a bit, still holding Lestrade’s hand in his own, and allowed a knowing smile to flash on his face. Lestrade shook his head with bemusement.   
                “I’m not even going to ask about that.”  
                “It’s really more my brothers business.”  
                “Yes, John generally is.”  
They both laughed at this, and Lestrade thought how much he preferred the smooth timbre of Mycroft’s voice to the background noise of the television any day.  
                “I think I’ll just stick to my umbrella.” Mycroft commented, absentmindedly running the fingers of his free hand against it, propped up by the side of the chair.  
                “What, and just fall over when you can’t walk and it starts to rain and you have to put it up?”  
                “Don’t be ridiculous, Greg.” Mycroft reprimanded him but looked entertained by the half mocking jest in Lestrade’s voice and the boyish childishness that crossed his features.  
                “Yeah, I’ve always wondered about that.”  
Sensing a bout of immaturity, that Lestrade so often hid and only seemed to let loose around Mycroft, was coming, he shot him a warning look.  
                “Greg...”  
                “Like, you always hold that umbrella but it’s never wet.”  
                “Stop talking, Greg.”  
                “I mean, I never actually see you using it.”  
                “I’m warning you...”  
                “But I never see you absolutely sopping wet either, even when it’s been raining hard outside.” This time it was Mycroft who rolled his eyes, while Lestrade continued his comical, fuelled by curiousity, commentary and questioning.  
                “Am I going to have to shut you up?” Mycroft shifted slightly in the chair but kept his eyes locked on Lestrade’s, and took in the way he bit his lip involuntarily at his words. Lestrade, in turn, saw Mycroft move and let another worried expression show on his face.  
                “Are you uncomfortable? Does it hurt a lot?” His tone was earnest, threaded with an anxiety that touched Mycroft so that he found himself replying honestly, and after years of the deception and surreptitiousness of politics, the fact that this one person managed to unknowingly open him up and leave no lies _still_ amazed him.  
                “Yes, I am.” But so as to not be rude in the face of hospitality, he continued, “But I’m fine.”  
                “Liar,” Lestrade said softly. Mycroft didn’t protest, so he dropped to the ground before him and ever so gently slid the expensive, leather shoe off Mycroft’s injured foot and carefully began to knead the skin, rubbing the arch and heel, running his fingers around his ankle. Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes.  
                “You should consider becoming a masseuse, you’ve got magic fingers.”  
Lestrade looked up and grinned wickedly.  
                “Magic fingers, hmmm?” His eyes glinted. “I’m sure they could do more than just massage your feet.”  
                “You might want to remember where you are sitting before you make statements like that,” Mycroft replied evenly, flexing his other foot. Lestrade just carried on smirking.  
                “So,” he continued his previous line of thoughts, “what, do you have some high tech water repellent force field or something, and the umbrella’s just for show?”  
                “Now you’re just being silly.”  
                “No, really, how do you manage to always carry an umbrella, never use it and _still_ happen to stay dry? That’s something us lower mortals never manage to do.”  
Mycroft tensed and looked solemn, his face grave. Lestrade looked up in surprise.  
                “Lower?” Mycroft asked. “You’re not below me, you never have been.”  
Lestrade reddened, his cheeks showing a hint of embarrassment, and it was all Mycroft could do to not reach forward and touch him, keep him and his open emotions to himself.  
                “I know,” Lestrade replied gruffly, “I was joking.”  
But Mycroft didn’t miss the pleased smile that tugged on his lips.  
                “Anyway, I don’t spend much time outside at all, so it rarely rains on me.” He carried on as if nothing was said, easing back again.  
                “And if it does?”  
                “Then I get wet.”  
                “ _Now_ who’s the silly one?”  
Mycroft laughed as Lestrade’s expression before wincing as a stab of pain flared in his ankle. Lestrade stilled instantly and the familiar concern came back into his countenance as he got up and balanced on the chair, looking down at Mycroft.  
                “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He touched his arm. “Perhaps not such a good masseuse?”  
                “Don’t worry, I’m sure you can more than make up for it.” And then, more to himself that anyone else, Mycroft added, “Compassion...that’s something I haven’t seen felt for me in a while.”  
Lestrade chuckled as he straightened up, turning to walk into the kitchen.  
                “I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it. Cup of coffee?”  
                “I really shouldn’t or I’ll never get to sleep tonight.”  
Lestrade leant back around the door frame, the same wicked grin from before on his face, his eyes alight.  
                “Well I don’t think _that’s_ a problem.”  
\--  
                “You’re supposed to drink it, not sniff it.”  
Mycroft looked up from the mug of coffee he held close to him, inhaling the aroma deeply, and smiled at Lestrade’s curious expression.  
                “It’s not often I get the chance to really enjoy a coffee,” he said, by way of an explanation, “I’m busy so much I never get the option to just sit and leisurely drink.”  
                “Yes, how _did_ you manage to find the time to spend the weekend with me?” Lestrade asked, eyebrows raised. “You haven’t had a single call all evening.”  
                “Are you getting at me there? I do try not to bring my work to our time.”  
Lestrade just laughed.  
                “No hard feelings, both our jobs are as bad as each other.”  
                “Hmm,” Mycroft breathed in slowly, wrapping his long fingers around the cup. “If you must know, I switched off my phone and I might have pulled a few strings so I could have these days off.”  
                “It must make you apprehensive, and a little infuriated, to leave the entire country in other people’s hands.”  
                “Yes,” Mycroft replied simply, then properly registered the remark and narrowed his eyes. “Although it wouldn’t be the entire country. In fact, very little-”  
                “Oh, minor position, what shit. Anyone who’s met you can see you are _not_ a “minor position” person.” Lestrade interrupted knowingly.  
                “If you have to put it so delightfully,” Mycroft sighed. “How do you see right through me? I’ve never met anyone, save for my brother, and even he doesn’t...” He trailed off thoughtfully.  
                “Perhaps it’s because you’re a terrible liar.”  
                “I’m an excellent liar.”  
                “Not around me,” Lestrade shrugged.  
 _And that_ , Mycroft thought, _is the truth to it all, the root to the problem_. And yet, sitting in a living room more familiar than his own, with a man who should have made him feel vulnerable but just made him feel at home, he found himself not considering it a problem at all and if it was, he didn’t have the usual instinct to fix it. It gave him an odd sort of satisfaction, satiety and security.  
                “Penny for them?” Lestrade’s voice broke into his thoughts.  
                “Hmmm?”  
                “Sometimes, I think you forget I’m here.”  
                “Quite the opposite, Greg, quite the opposite.”  
Lestrade lowered his gaze, smiling, and silence settled for a few minutes, in which Mycroft drank his coffee, Lestrade offered him a biscuit (Mycroft declined politely) and they contemplated each other soundlessly. It only ceased when Lestrade, who could not, it seemed to Mycroft, spend ten minutes without making a teasing, suggestive comment, caught Mycroft’s eye and said offhandly,  
                “Your secret service isn’t as impenetrable as you think, you know.”  
                “Oh really?” Intrigued, Mycroft leant forward.  
                “Yes, really. I know precisely how to bring the British Government to its knees.”  
                “And how, pray, would you do that?”  
                “Like this.”  
Lestrade stood up swiftly and strode across the room, rested his knees on each side of Mycroft’s and bent down over him, catching his lips determinedly. For a second, while Mycroft was stunned and Lestrade powerful, the control was his. But just as Mycroft accepted submissiveness, Lestrade backpedalled, like he always did, breaking away for a second, his breath hot on Mycroft’s mouth, before he leant forwards more hesitantly, tentatively brushing his lips against Mycroft’s, all unsure and careful. He was always nervous, shy, as if this was something he shouldn’t be doing, couldn’t believe he was doing, despite all his insinuations and openness. Although Mycroft’s assurances were accepted, Lestrade’s awe and timidity, so different from the strong DI he was usually seen as, was forever bringing out a feeling of protectiveness and responsibility in Mycroft, and also a sort of frustration, that made him want to hold his lover and shake him roughly at the same time.  
Lestrade leant back, his lips still on Mycroft’s, his hands in his hair, Mycroft followed, rising from the chair, his body flowing with Lestrade’s like they fitted together, but when they stumbled backwards he gasped into their kiss, pulling away briefly as he sucked in his cheeks sharply at the pain. Lestrade looked alarmed for a second, then dismayed, and Mycroft cursed himself as Lestrade started to move away. He quickly enclosed Lestrade’s waist in his arms and tugged him back until they were touching again, fitting together the way they belonged, and then rested his hands on Lestrade’s hips. Lestrade looked at him, sincerity clear in his eyes.  
                “I don’t want to hurt...I don’t want you to hurt yourself...I just...”  
                “I already have. And when has anything stopped me before?” Mycroft asked, playing with Lestrade’s belt strap.  
                “That’s true,” Lestrade smiled again, but softly, oh so softly. Mycroft drew even closer, so their cheeks grazed and his breath on Lestrade’s neck sent shivers down his body, and whispered,  
                “Now kiss me like you mean it.”  
To this, Lestrade happily obliged.  
\--  
When Lestrade awoke, to the weary morning sunlight fighting hard against the coming winter, the first thing he noticed was the absence of his sheets, which were ruckled down at the bottom of his bed and which he kicked back up with his feet before grasping them and pulling them up over him. The second thing was how, despite the cool air and the fact he’d evidently been asleep without the warmth of his sheets, he wasn’t the slightest bit cold at all, rather a deliciously comfy temperature that matched the feel of the mattress beneath him so that he just wanted to snuggle into it. And finally, after contemplating the sheets and the bed and his body temperature, he realised how his muscles ached and how he was good and sore in all the right places. He closed his eyes to memories of Mycroft that danced behind his eyelids and let a happy smile settle on his face.  
                “Since I can tell you’re not asleep, I’ll assume that expression is down to some very nice thoughts you’re having.”  
Lestrade’s smile widened and he propped himself up on his elbows as he opened his eyes again to look at the man who’d just walked in, holding two cups of tea.  
                “Maybe,” he let his gaze stray over Mycroft, who was dressed in nothing but his underwear and a shirt, one eyebrow lifted at Lestrade’s unsubtlety.  “Why are you up so early?”  
Mycroft walked around one side of the bed, setting one cup down on the bedside table and passing the other to Lestrade. He then turned back to twist the alarm clock so Lestrade could see it.  
                “9 o’clock is not early, Greg,” he laughed. “And the sun woke me up. You really need to replace your blinds.”  
                “Now that I _can_ do.” Lestrade took a sip of tea. “Not coffee this morning?”  
                “I find that a morning can’t be considered a morning without tea.”  
Lestrade laughed too and they both drank their tea in a relative silence that was as comfortable as the bed beneath them. And though neither would say it, sometimes the mornings were the best part. The companionship and truthfulness and contentment that was open and simple in the pure, early light.  
When he was finished, Lestrade put his cup on the chest of drawers next to him and rolled over so he was that much closer to Mycroft. He put his hand on Mycroft’s chest, absentmindedly playing with the buttons on his shirt. Mycroft watched as his hands stilled for a second and a slight frown creased his brow between his eyes.  
                “Is this my shirt?” He asked, confusedly, knowing full well it was.  
                “Yes, I appear to have lost mine somewhere.” Lestrade looked up at the note of teasing in Mycroft’s voice and smiled, resuming running his hand up and down his chest, his fingers playing with the buttons again.  
                “It suits you. Maybe I should make an effort to always help you misplace your clothes.”  
To his surprise Mycroft averted his gaze at that, and while he didn’t exactly blush, he looked a mixture of pleased and shy which Lestrade thought was a very attractive look on him, a look that made Lestrade’s heart clench for a moment. He moved his arm so it was settled around Mycroft’s waist and pulled him even closer.  
                “I take it your foot’s feeling better?”  
                “Well enough so that I could hobble to your kitchen and back.”  
Lestrade laughed, somewhat huskily due to sleep and the previous night’s occurrences.  
                “Perhaps we should talk to John about borrowing that walking stick.”  
                “Oh, do shut up.”  
As Lestrade leant his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, Mycroft tucked an arm around him and closed his eyes. Lying in bed, in the weak sunlight, warm from tea and close contact, with the calming breaths of the only man he’d ever truly opened up to soothing through the shirt on his shoulder, he got the unfamiliar desire of never wanting to leave, to freeze the moment in time and relive it forever. It seemed this was the way Lestrade felt too, judging by his next murmured utterance.  
                “We could lie here all day,” he said, sighing softly.  
                “Technically, we could,” Mycroft agreed.  
                “But don’t worry, I know how much doing nothing irritates you,” Lestrade grinned, “I just wish I had the same motivation.”  
                “You know, doing nothing with you isn’t so bad.”  
Lestrade looked up and gave Mycroft the smile that Mycroft always said made him fall a little bit further.  
                “For that I’ll cook you dinner.”  
                “I should hope so.” Mycroft inclined his head to gently kiss Lestrade’s forehead. Lestrade shifted in even closer and sighed again in contentment.  
                “We really should get up.”  
                “ _I_ was up. You were the one sleeping for ages,” Mycroft corrected, then added thoughtfully, “Though I should hardly complain, you do look so lovely when you sleep.”  
Lestrade moved far enough back so he could hit Mycroft lightly on the arm and sat up, resisting the temptation to stretch lazily. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, tossing a glance back at Mycroft, who was watching him, smiling.  
                “We’d better find that shirt of yours, if you want to ever get to dinner.”  
\--  
It was raining outside, the raindrops striking against the window with increasing speed and vigour, giving a shifting, rippling effect on the carpet as the room seemed to get darker and darker by the minute. It was such a stark difference to the sunlight only twenty minutes before. Leaning against the doorframe the led to the kitchen, his gaze fixed on the grey world outside, Mycroft watched the sudden downpour and for a second thought about looking for rainbows with Sherlock when they were children, smiling momentarily at the memory before movement by the front door caught his eye.  
                “Where are you going?” He asked, confusion creasing his face as he took in the coat in Lestrade’s hand.  
                “ _We_ are going for a walk,” Lestrade replied, shrugging the on and straightening out the collar.  
                “Are you serious?”  
                “If you’re worried about your foot, you can hold on to me, I’ll let you.”  
                “But it’s raining?” Mycroft was genuinely puzzled by this seemingly random, illogical proposition.  
                “Precisely. Now shall we take a shower in the rain?” Lestrade extended his hand, as if beckoning Mycroft forward to join him.  
                “You know I’d really rather not catch a cold.”  
Lestrade raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at the umbrella that Mycroft had held in one hand. Mycroft laughed and pushed himself off the wall, walking towards Lestrade slowly, swinging the umbrella. And when he reached him, for the first time ever, holding onto Lestrade’s arm, he put up his umbrella and stepped out into the rain.  
  



End file.
